


Spring Has Come

by azulaahai



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Jon and Sansa get married and rebuild winterfell and everything's good but also sad, Marriage, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, late night "poetic" (pretentious) ramblings of mine lmao, testing new things with my writing style in this and unsure if it paid off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 14:10:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15664776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azulaahai/pseuds/azulaahai
Summary: It's opened old wounds, coming back here, as coming home often does.





	Spring Has Come

**Author's Note:**

> No idea what this is, couldn't sleep without writing it down, might regret this in the morning.
> 
> I was NOT kidding with the "fluff and angst" tag lmao, there's both heavy, heavy angst and shameless fluff.
> 
> I really don't know. Just ... it is what it is (pretentious)

I: GHOSTS AND RUINS

Sansa, clad in her finest grey furs, sits on a snowcovered bench in Winterfell's now deserted courtyard, and reflects upon the nature of loss.

It's opened old wounds, coming back here, as coming home often does. Away from it all, no matter how cruel her own conditions were, she could always imagine and dream of Winterfell, the way she remembered it: warm from newly-tended fires, shaking from the laughter of her siblings, ancient and familiar and certain, a shield against all evil. Her family was always there, of course, in the fantasies - they continued to be, even when she heard of their deaths, one by one. In her dreams, they were always home.

In her dreams, they were always smiling.

But here, in the almost-empty almost-ruins of her home, Sansa finds it more difficult to pretend. Winterfell is no longer a blurry, glittering daydream, but a broken, deserted reality around her.

And they're not here.

They're not smiling.

Loss, Sansa figures, isn't smooth, isn't final, isn't ever over. She loses her mother everytime she looks in the mirror and finds no one standing behind her with a brush in hand; she loses her father once for every favorite place of his in Winterfell he does not stand to greet her in; she loses Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon to the deafening silence they can no longer keep at bay.

Loses them all whenever she's called 'lady Stark', and is reminded that she's the only one left.

The north remembers, and so does she.

Sansa closes her eyes, can no longer bear to see the courtyard that's so familiar, yet so wrong, so empty.

"Sansa?"

A deep voice, a northern voice. A man's voice, not the boy he was last time they were here.

A voice that reminds her.

She's not the _only_ one left.

Sansa opens her eyes, slowly, to see him come across the courtyard, furclad, messy-haired, Longclaw on his hip, looking Stark to the bone in a way that has Sansa almost weepy.

He strides across the yard, looking at her with piercing eyes, Arya's eyes, father's eyes. Winterfell itselfs seems to greet him as he comes - she'll admit the setting suits him.

"Jon." She hears the distance in her voice and regrets it instantly.

He stops a few steps away from her, uncertain.

"I ... they told me you were here. Forgive me, I did not wish to disturb you."

"You haven't", she insists, shifting a little on the bench, moving, making room. "Do you want to ...?" She gestures to the seat beside her.

He looks at her hesitantly.

"Are you certain?"

"Please, Jon." She smiles, but she can feel how pale of a smile it is. "Make me company." Don't leave me alone again, is what she means. Perhaps he understands that, for he comes to sit by her then without any more argument.

And they sit in the brokenness of their home, quietly regarding grey walls that seem even greyer now that they're only half-standing. Neither of them says it, but they can both see the ghosts of the people that should be here, they both ache for a time long lost.

Perhaps it's one of those days, today; a day for ghosts and ruins and heartbreaks.

They say nothing, sitting side by side.

But both of them are glad not to be alone.

Snow is falling, softly.

II: OLD AND NEW

Sansa, clad in a soft, loose dress to accomodate her growing belly, sits on a bench warmed by sunlight in Winterfell's bustling courtyard, and reflects upon the nature of healing.

The last time she sat here, she muses, was the day before her wedding. Jon'd come to sit by her then; she remembers the day well, remembers Jon and ghosts and the feeling of having lived too long, having been left behind. Her hand moves to her belly at the thought, as if to protect the babe from her brooding. Sansa has to smile at herself. She's become a mother hen before she's even had the child.

Winterfell is a little less broken around her now - rebuilding is a strange process, but it moves forward with each day. Not everything's recoverable; it will never be the same. Sansa's almost glad of it. Builders present her with new designs every day, of glass gardens and watchtowers and new chambers. She's just come from a meeting with a set of builders, in fact. It's nice to be outside after a morning spent bent over paper scrolls and drawings of designs.

There's children running around in the courtyard: they've taken wards, so many orphans after the war. The children are swinging wooden swords, laughing. Sansa's heart aches at the sound as it echoes across the yard. A sudden pang of grief hits her as she thinks of the ones she'd like to show this new world, this new Winterfell to.

They'll never see.

But she will keep on building anyway.

Healing, Sansa figures, closing her eyes to soak in the sunlight, isn't smooth, isn't final, isn't ever over. It runs a constant course through her, through the castle, through her people. She will always have her scars and her ghosts; Winterfell will never be completely restored; no one shall ever forget the long night. They will bear it; they will grow. Winter is always coming, aye.

And after it, spring.

Sansa opens her eyes, as if she senses him coming. Her eyes search for him in the well-filled courtyard, combing through rushed servants and sparring children. And there he is, walking towards her with a smile, eyes squinting in the sunlight. He is wearing his lighter cloak today - the weather's getting warmer again. Her husband. The girl within her still squeals at the thought, and Sansa stifles a grin.

Jon makes his way towards her, but it takes a sweet time - he is stopped constantly by someone having buisness to be discussed with the king and lord. When he finally walks up to her and reaches the bench, she grins at him. It's a beautiful day, really. There's plenty to be grinned at; the sun's out and there's hope in the air and Sansa's not alone, not alone at all, the castle is filled to the brim and before her is her husband.

He takes a seat beside her, silently. Their silence is a comfortable, cherished thing, nowadays, a welcome rest for them both. Sansa gently leans against him and he catches his hand in hers.

And they sit in the bustle of their home, regarding people passing by. Neither of them says it, but they both remember other times when the courtyard has been as crowded.

But oddly, today, the memories don't hurt as much. Today, they feel more like old friends.

Perhaps it's one of those days, today; a day for softness and laughter and building something new, not instead of the past but in honor of it.

Sansa squeezes Jon's hand as they gaze over the courtyard, over a people that might be on their way to be alright again. Jon squeezes back.

They say nothing, sitting side by side.

But both of them are glad not to be alone.

The sun is out.


End file.
